Carnage at the car show: Robot meltdown

I didn’t go to the Albany Auto Show this weekend expecting dismemberment. Not even of the mechanical variety.

I went to show support for the six major car dealerships in our district (Lia Hyundai, DePaula Chevrolet, Albany Dodge, Armory Automotive, Advantage Suzuki, and Orange Motors make Central Avenue the destination for car shopping in Albany and generate an estimated $35 million in sales taxes annually.) I wanted to see the latest models, including several electric options that are going to change the face of driving.

My son and I were waiting our turn at Mr. Twisty when the 8-foot tall Queen Robota entered the arena. Kids around us began to buzz, and pretty soon we were carried forward by an enthusiasm that is as old as the Tin Man. Queen Robota is the latest addition to the Comic Bots, a traveling robot show that keeps itself in nuts-and-bolts by doing dance performances at car shows. Robota and her handler, a white-coated lab tech who did double-duty as photographer, entered the arena to the first strains of 4 Non-Blonde’s “What’s Up.” The robot “powered up” and the tech “calibrated” while the crowd kept a safe distance.

Blame it on Transformers, blame it on the self-checkout line at grocery stores, but adults and kids alike were cutting this shiny golem a wide berth. Finally, some brave woman broke the man-machine embargo, and approached the robot. Queen Robota was the soul of courtesy and reached out her hand to the woman and inviting her onto the floor. The robot curtsied, and the woman curtsied back. When the robot leaned her tiara-clad head down, the woman craned her neck, and the two touched foreheads, and it was like some moment out of Terminator 2 when the young Edward Furlong instructs Arnold Schwarzenegger in the finer points of human behavior (including the ever popular kiss-off, “Hasta la vista, baby”).

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After that, it was all over. The crowd swarmed to have their photos taken with the dancing sylph. A little boy with a balloon sword stood in front of her looking tough. A little girl in a sparkly blue skirt stood beside her while “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” played in the background. Two car show employees next to me bopped in time with her to Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5,” the tags around their necks bouncing in time. A father and son took up positions on either side of her, a woman held up her baby, and I don’t know if it was the music (Queen Robota seems to prefer sentimental chart-toppers like “I Will Always Love You” and “My Heart Will Go On”) or just the crowd’s youthful exuberance, but it was an oddly touching scene. Queen Robota was engaging, a modern-day Rosie the Robot, and even the most circumspect couldn’t help but be drawn in.

We were just leaving the crowd when the accident happened. Somehow, the robot lost her balance and fell to the ground, glancing the side of a bright yellow Camaro on her way down. I turned around just in time to see the white coat dart out from behind her kiosk and run to the robot’s side. I would have thought it was part of the show if it weren’t for the stricken look on her face. She motions for the crowd to help her lift the robot to its feet, and they set upon it gamely, ranging themselves about her, five or six on either side. They lift as one. They try again. But no matter what they do, they can’t seem to right her.

The crowd murmurs. What now? The robot is trapped. Some people wander away, but many linger around the supine figure, unwilling to abandon her, but uncertain what to do next. They look to the technician, and she stands for a long moment, weighing her options, before finally pulling the trigger.

America's favorite housekeeper, Rosie the Robot.

The next thing I know, a man emerges from the crowd wearing the robot’s legs. At first, I think it’s some bizarre hunting trophy, like a coon-skin cap or a pair of buck antlers, but then I realize the truth: He is Queen Robota. He has freed himself from the costume, and is now wearing the legs like some enormous pair of clown pants. It’s an act of self-preservation, (perfectly in line with Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics) and yet I feel faintly disgusted with him.

He quickly makes his way out of the arena, leaving the upper portion of the robot on the floor like some discarded wrapper. The remaining members of the audience beat a hasty retreat. I am among them. I don’t want my son to see the robot fake-out, and so I try to distract him with a big truck. He’s 2, so that’s easy. But for some reason I can’t put my finger on, I feel embarrassed and vaguely sad. The tech throws a cloth over the robot torso, which only adds to the feeling of gloom that has invaded the arena; something has died.

I believe it was Darth Vader, a robot-man hybrid himself, who warned us not to lower our defenses; turns out, he was right.